Archive for February, 2010

Questions of Distance Haunt Me

Posted in My Poems on February 22, 2010 by paulscotaugust

Questions of Distance Haunt Me

How is it your voice slides over the horizon
as clearly as if we were sitting across the table
at breakfast drinking our morning coffee?

Shouldn’t your words swim thru taut-strung
wires thick as your braided hair, strung high
atop poles along winding two-lane highways
through Montana and the Dakota Badlands,
the Black Hills causing echoes so they arrive
in matched pairs just after just after you say them?

How come I imagine your hand as it tightens
its grip on the receiver the way you might
on the handle of a dagger just before you’d cut me?

And when I moved inside of you that final time
in room 7 of that cheap motel off highway 53,
my face buried in your hair, your legs pulling me
closer so the space between our skin could not be
measured, why just then did I feel the gap widen
between where we were at that exact moment
and where I once was?
                               Why do I always feel this way
when I am lying alone in my bed on those murky nights
when sleep has decided to take a long walk elsewhere,
feeling that you are with me as before, that if I just reach
out far enough, the fissure will close and the lesion
will scab over?
                     And if possible, can you tell me please,
why after all these years and uncounted miles between
us the mere sound of your voice still makes me bleed?

Paul Scot August

Published February 2010 in Poetry Quarterly, Volume One – “Carried Over”

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